In All the Places I Call Home
by themostrandomfandom
Summary: She swears one day, she'll marry that girl. Five Brittana vignettes, spanning from ages thirteen to eighteen, each of which features at least one marriage proposal and at least one kiss. Canon compliant to 3x05. Mouseverse.
1. Chapter 1: Something Old

Santana is thirteen years old and her parents aren't so sure about her attending this wedding, but she is.

It makes perfect sense, if you think about it: the wedding is on Saturday in Columbus and cheer camp starts on Monday in Jackson. Since the Pierces already have to head south anyway, they might as well make a weekend trip of it and drop Brittany and Santana off at camp along the way. If they do, it will save Santana's parents the trouble of getting her to Jackson themselves. Besides, Santana knows Brittany's cousins like they're her cousins anyway, and she likes this particular cousin a lot, enough that she's actually really excited for this wedding.

It totally makes sense; trust her.

Eventually, Santana's parents do, on the condition that the Pierces actually accept some gas money this time.

Santana loves road trips with the Pierces, and not just because they have this uncanny ability to always find the best ice cream parlors in the little podunk towns where they stop to take their lunches—today, the K & K Dairy Corner in gray-tinged Belle Center—but because they're loud and they talk in the car, which is something that Santana's family never really does.

Santana likes the babble, likes how the Pierces point out interesting things to each other through the windows, and sing along to the songs on the radio, replacing the cusswords with funny fake-swears, as they constantly adjust and readjust the A/C.

Sometimes Santana thinks she fits better in this family than she does in her own.

Brittany and Santana sit in the backseat, trading two ice cream cones back and forth between them. Coarse salt and ice crystals rub against their tongues. Neither one of them could decide which flavor to get, so Brittany came up with this awesome plan: Santana would pick the one, Brittany the other, and then they could share. It was totally win-win. Brittany is a genius.

Brittany's mom sits on the center bench next to Brittany's little sister's car seat, reading to her about Winnie the Pooh. Brittany's dad is on the phone with his brother whose daughter is getting married this weekend; he keeps laughing really loudly and saying, "Oh Lord, buddy. Oh good Lord! Jesus!" and Brittany's mom just scrunches up her nose at him and shakes her head.

That night, after they settle in at Brittany's grandma's house, Mr. and Mrs. Pierce allow Brittany and Santana to stay home alone while they go to the rehearsal dinner, taking Brittany's little sister with them so that Brittany and Santana don't even have to babysit. With the rest of the family gone, Brittany and Santana end up watching MTV all night on the big screen in the basement, tucked beneath one of Brittany's grandma's afghans.

"Fergie is such a fucking slut," Santana says around a mouthful of popcorn.

Brittany scrunches her nose up at Santana's word choice, but doesn't scold her for it. She just shakes her head. "Hey, Santana?" she says. "Have you ever been to a wedding before?"

Santana pauses. "No. Have you?"

"No. Do you think it's like how it is in cartoons?"

It isn't like how it is in cartoons—not really anyway.

First of all, they have to wake up super early to get ready for the day.

Brittany forgot her razor back in Lima, so she has to borrow Santana's to shave her legs, which is kind of gross but whatever because they share everything anyway. Brittany's aunt tells them not to fill up on breakfast because there will be plenty of food at the luncheon reception later, but they sneak the donuts Brittany's PopPop left out on the counter anyway because—hello, donuts!—they're not going to pass on that.

Brittany isn't in the ceremony because she's too old to be the flower girl but too young to be a bridesmaid, but her cousin still wanted her to wear the wedding colors anyway, so her mom got her a new lavender dress; Santana wears lavender, too. It takes them forever to put on their make up because Brittany's mother keeps telling them they're overdoing it on the eye gunk and could they tone it down a little, girls, please? There will be plenty of time for all that at cheer camp.

Santana weaves a purple headband with silk flowers on it through Brittany's hair.

"Beautiful," she whispers.

"You, too, San," Brittany says, even though Santana just wears her hair down with light curls in it; she didn't do anything too special to fix it.

The second thing is that the wedding itself isn't very exciting.

The ceremony takes place in a chapel that's a lot plainer than any Santana's ever visited, with simple decor and wooden benches and a bunch of unlit candles. The bride's family sits on one side of the room and the groom's sits on the other, and most of the kids sort of crowd together on one of the benches, with the teenagers shushing the little ones, trying to keep everybody quiet, bouncing babies on their laps, feeling important, like they have something to do. Brittany and Santana are too old to count as little but too young to count as big; they sit somewhere in the middle of the group with Brittany's little sister next to them, secretly glad to have no more responsibility than that.

Two of Brittany's older girl cousins huddle behind them and gossip about how cute the groom is, wondering if he has brothers. Brittany knocks her shoes against Santana's and Santana knocks back. They both smile and touch their legs together. They don't wonder anything.

"Quit it, Britt," one of Brittany's older boy cousins hisses.

"Mind your business," Brittany says pertly, ignoring him, braiding her leg around Santana's ankle. Santana's heart speeds up, like it does so often now whenever she's with Brittany.

The ceremony includes a lot of talk about God and a lot of talk about love. Brittany's cousin looks beautiful in her dress; she's blonde, like Brittany, and tall, like everyone says that Brittany will be. Light catches on her spangled jewelry, refracted in prisms over the altar and against the colored glass in the windows.

When the pastor asks the bride to light one of the candles on the table behind her, she starts crying. When he asks the groom to do the same, he starts crying, too. Santana feels this funny, pinched feeling in her chest and reaches out her pinky to Brittany without saying a word. Brittany wraps their fingers together and gives Santana's a little tug when the pastor tells the groom that he may kiss his bride.

(Sometimes Santana feels bigger on the inside than she does on the outside, like there's some secret part of her that goes for miles.)

Lunch is boring and so are the few intervening hours between lunch and the actual night reception. Brittany and Santana spend the time hiding out in the coat nook at the banquet hall, steering clear of Brittany's aunts, who want them to fold napkins and put mints on all the tables. Instead of helping, they lay down in a pile of jackets, shawls, and sports blazers, Santana's earbuds strung between them, one for Brittany and one for Santana. They listen to music and run fingers through each other's hair, ignoring the ruckus going on outside.

Santana teeters on the brink of a nap; it's been a long day and everything started so early. Lying here with Brittany calms Santana, softens her muscles, and puts the thickness of sleep in her throat. Brittany reaches over and takes Santana's hand in hers, running her thumb over Santana's fourth knuckle in small, light circles.

"Did you see her ring?" Brittany asks.

"Yeah," Santana says dreamily. "It was pretty gaudy. He's like a lawyer or something, isn't he? Rich."

"Mm-hm," Brittany says, staring at Santana's hand. She seems somehow far away, even though she's actually so close that Santana could count her eyelashes.

Neither one of them says anything for a while. Brittany hums, shadows from the hangers above them playing over her face in stripes. She closes her pretty cat eyes and Santana wonders if they both won't just fall asleep that moment, but then Brittany pipes up.

"Did you know wedding rings go on your left hand because there's this line that connects it to your heart? Like a vein or something?" she says, staring at Santana, a new brightness in her voice.

"Weird," Santana says, impressed, turning her attention to her own left hand, where Brittany still massages her knuckle.

For a second, they stay quiet again, listening as the next song comes up on Santana's playlist. Then, at the same time, they reach over and link pinky-fingers. Brittany giggles, scooting slightly closer to Santana on their makeshift bed of coats.

Santana doesn't know why she says it, but she does: "Do you think this—," she gives their pinkies a little tug, "—will feel weird when we have wedding rings someday?"

She thinks she means one thing when she says it, but as soon as she does, it changes to mean something else. Heat spreads out across her skin and her heart beats crazy fast. Santana waits, breathless and suddenly nervous, like she just asked something really big, instead of a tame "What if?" type question.

Brittany looks at Santana like she's just noticed something new about her. She cocks her head to the side, curious, and Santana thinks _Oh god, oh god, oh god._

Brittany smiles, lazy.

"No," she says simply, curling and uncurling her finger around Santana's, just to check.

Santana can't be sure, but it seems like Brittany knows something more than Santana does; that happens more and more often nowadays.

It takes another few seconds before Santana finally can exhale. "Okay," she says, and that's enough.

(It feels like a promise and Santana isn't sure why.)

The reception is the first actual fun activity they attend all day—maybe because it's at night and all the adults are already tipsy.

Nobody stops Brittany and Santana from sneaking champagne from an unattended table and no one looks twice at them when they get out on the dance floor and start spinning each other, barefoot and reckless, like there's no one else around them. Some of the groom's male cousins take an interest in them, but Brittany and Santana just ignore their catcalls; they're never going to see these idiots again, so what's the point, right?

The soles of their bare feet leave prints on the dance floor after them; Santana sees them catch the lights sometimes, toes and heel spots overlapping. When Brittany pulls her in close, Santana feels this heady rush. Brittany holds her by the wrist and twirls her in figure-eights around the floor.

By the time the garter toss rolls around, the groom is crimson faced and grinning, his tux jacket gone and cummerbund askew. His best man wolf whistles at him as he slips his head under Brittany's cousin's dress and heat rises to Santana's cheeks as he emerges, lace between his teeth, waggling his eyebrows while his old frat brothers applaud him, until she has to look away.

A few minutes later, when Brittany's cousin calls for all her "fabulous single girlies" to gather on the dance floor, Brittany and Santana beg Brittany's mother to let them join the rush, too. She relents, but tells them not to hurt anyone and reminds them that they're young still—don't go catching that bouquet too soon, girls, okay? Give her time.

They laugh and make promises they don't intend to keep, scampering out into the throng, jostling for a favorable position. Brittany's mother watches them go, wearing a tight smile that Santana can't quite read.

It's not so much that Santana really wants the bouquet for herself as it is that she wants the fun of leaping for it. She bumps hips with Brittany and stands on tiptoe, watching Brittany's cousin clutch her flowers in her hands. The bouquet has pansies, pale mauve hellebore, white roses, and yellow lilies. Brittany's cousin draws it to her face, inhaling its scent one last time, before she starts counting backwards from ten, feinting once before finally lobbing the bouquet as she reaches zero, throwing it over her shoulder with a throaty, hopeful laugh.

Almost as soon as the bouquet leaves her hands, the ribbon around the stems unravels. The bouquet hits an apex, illuminated in the lights. The women on the dance floor collectively shriek and move forward like the tide, their mouths open, eyes trained skyward, hands raised as if in prayer. There's music somewhere, and Santana laughs and Brittany laughs and then flowers rain on them.

It isn't a graceful shower, more like a cascade, but in the end, it's all the same: the bouquet falls apart, dropping a stream of blossoms like a trail of shooting stars. The crowd groans, but Brittany and Santana laugh as petals and stems shower down on them. There's something wonderful in the mistake.

Like most of the younger women around them, they scramble to salvage some of the tradition. Brittany comes away with a pansy and the top bloom of a lily, Santana with a pansy of her own. They hold the flowers up for each other to examine, grinning like idiots and happy; Brittany offers the lily remnant to one of the groom's younger sisters, but keeps her pansy for herself, threading it under her headband, then helps Santana tuck hers behind her ear.

The rest of the evening goes off without a hitch. The bride and groom smash cake into each other's faces, then duck away while the relatives continue to dance and drink. Brittany's dad allows the girls a sip of champagne each, not knowing that they've already had some, as long as they promise not to tell Mrs. Pierce; later, Brittany's PopPop does the same when he thinks that Grandma isn't looking. By the end of the night, Santana feels dizzy. She and Brittany amble out of the reception hall, pinky-in-pinky, retreating to the coat nook, where they collapse back onto their bed of discarded outerwear.

"Are we drunk?" Brittany asks, practically shouting.

"Shh!" Santana says. She doesn't think they are, but it's kind of fun to pretend.

"We should have a wedding every weekend!" Brittany crows, still dancing to the throb of the bass thumping from the hall, even though they can no longer hear the melody which accompanies it.

"Shh!" Santana says again, pressing a finger over her lips. She's never felt so giddy and warm and careless in her life. "I'm tired, Britty," she says. "Like really fucking tired."

Brittany shrugs, still grinning. "Okay, so go to sleep."

They nestle down onto their nest of jackets and Brittany pulls a blazer over their legs, humming. The silk lining on the inside of the blazer licks against their smooth skin, cooler than they are. The blazer barely covers both of them, but neither Brittany nor Santana complains.

"I'm tired, too," Brittany yawns. "All that dancing."

"Yeah."

They both sigh, deep.

"Don't smash your flower," Brittany says, reaching over to adjust Santana's pansy where it rests against her head.

"Won't," Santana mumbles.

_"Buenas noches, señorita," _Brittany whispers. She closes her eyes, and for a second Santana does, too. It's after midnight, which isn't really all that late for them, but late enough that they can both go to sleep without feeling too much like babies for doing it. Brittany's dad will find them when he comes to retrieve his jacket. He can wake them up to go to the car; the party probably won't last that much longer now anyway.

"Brittany?" Santana breathes after a few minutes.

No answer.

Santana doesn't dare open her eyes. Instead, she just edges closer to Brittany on their pile of jackets, careful not to dislodge the one covering their legs.

"BrittBritt?" she whispers again.

No answer.

Santana strokes her fingers down Brittany's forearm, feeling over the bones in her wrist, until her hand rests on Brittany's hand. Santana finds Brittany's fourth knuckle and presses down on it, testing. Her body hums with something, like a tune Santana knows, but can't place, and she thinks it must be the champagne doing it. Brittany sleeps and Santana feels almost asleep herself.

"Thank you," Santana whispers against Brittany's cheek, not quite sure what for.

In the morning, she won't remember it and neither will Brittany.

She presses a kiss to Brittany's lips before giving into dreaming.


	2. Chapter 2: Something New

Brittany is fourteen years old, but only for a few more days.

She still really, really likes candy, though.

She also really, really likes Santana, so tonight is basically like the best night ever because she has candy and she has Santana and it's just them and no one knows or really cares where the hell they are.

Santana's parents aren't ever truly mean; mostly, they're just aloof, like cats. But when they get drunk, they change, just like Brittany's parents do when they get drunk. It's not bad, but it's still a change. Their eyes seem darker and shinier, and they act more canine than feline, transformed in their drunkenness.

They get loud—especially Santana's dad—and call Santana into crowded rooms to show her off, bragging about what good grades she gets and about how she's a cheerleader and how all the boys like her and how she volunteers at the hospital on weekends.

They seem to fill more space than usual, which is funny, because somehow when they get like that, Santana seems to shrink. She contracts under their attention, her voice small and young, her eyes too busy searching the room to rest on any one thing, hopping like a wary bird from perch to perch to perch. By the end of the night, Santana all but disappears.

Dr. and Mrs. Lopez don't seem to notice, but Brittany does.

That's why she took Santana down to the basement before the party even started: because she likes Santana taller rather than smaller. She doesn't want Santana leaving her tonight.

It wasn't hard to get Santana to hide with her; all Brittany had to say was that she wanted to look at pictures of them from when they were little and Santana's face lit up like Christmas. She said, "Okay, Britt!" and led her downstairs by the pinky, tugging Brittany over to the Tupperware box where Santana's mom keeps all the old photo albums.

Lately, looking at pictures has become one of their favorite hobbies. They both agree they were cute when they were in elementary school and they like to rehash all their old stories, recounting past bike accidents and school art projects and all the little firsts that have brought them to fourteen. Tonight, they discover some old paperback yearbooks from WMES and spend the evening laughing at the unfortunate fashion choices that their classmates made in the early two-thousands.

They can still hear the party going on upstairs—Santana's parents and their doctor friends laughing about the ridiculousness of patients and taking cracks at the hospital administration over dry pinot grigio. They're long past the third bottle of wine by now; their footsteps fall heavily and the ceiling rattles over Brittany and Santana's heads.

"Hey, San?" Brittany says, eyes catching something on the other side of the room. "Why is the doorknob on top of the door instead of on the side?"

"What?" Santana says, stopping her sharpie marker just above an eleven year old Adams, Azimio on Mrs. Hammond's fifth grade page. She's already drawn a mustache above his uninhibited grin; she's halfway through a word: D-O-U-

Brittany points to what she means: what looks like a closet door on the side of the stairwell, with the doorknob on the top of the door instead of on the side, like usual. Now that Brittany examines it closer, she realizes that its hinges are at the bottom of the door instead of on the side, too.

"Oh," says Santana, recapping her marker. She stands up off the loveseat and heads over to stairwell. Brittany follows, curious.

There are not very many things in Santana's house that Brittany doesn't know about; after all, Brittany is here almost as often as Santana is. They've practically been best friends forever. Finding something new like this thrills Brittany. It's not very often that they can have adventures while they're still in the house anymore.

"It's a hideaway bed—er, couch, Britt," Santana explains, grabbing onto the doorknob and opening the door down instead of out. As she does, a mattress erupts from behind it, probably faster than Santana expected it to do. "Woh!" she says, hopping out of the way.

Brittany sees what Santana means right away: it isn't exactly a bed because it doesn't have a frame or box springs, but it is sort of divided, with a back and what could be a seat; it seems like a couch, maybe, except that it doesn't have legs. Someone draped a thin, yellow sheet over it, probably years ago. Brittany wastes no time diving onto it, laughing as it bounces under her weight. It smells musty and Brittany guesses that no one has ever really slept on it.

"Gross, Britt," Santana says. "That thing is, like, a million years old. There are probably spiders crawling around in it and shit."

Brittany leans over the back of the couch and peers into the closet. It isn't empty. "Hey!" she says, reaching out before Santana can protest. "Look at what I found!" she grins, revealing a plastic jack-o-lantern bucket filled with goodies. "Isn't this your Halloween candy?"

Both Brittany's parents and Santana's agree that their daughters shouldn't go trick-or-treating this year because fourteen—or fifteen years old by then, in Brittany's case—is too old for that, but last year they let the girls go under the condition that they chaperone Brittany's little sister when they did, and that actually turned out pretty well for them.

The people around Santana's neighborhood seemed to like seeing two big girls with the little one. They said that Brittany and Santana were such good babysitters, and wouldn't they like some candy, too? When Brittany and Santana pretended like they couldn't possibly accept any treats for themselves, Santana's neighbors insisted that they do it anyway—"selfless service" and all that.

"Oh, yeah," Santana says. "Nasty. I hid it down here so my mom wouldn't eat all my Almond Joys, but I guess I kinda forgot about it." She shrugs.

"Chocolate takes a long time to spoil, Santana," Brittany says knowingly, fishing an Almond Joy out from inside the pumpkin, wagging it in Santana's face.

"Yeah, but that's from last year," Santana returns, eyeing the candy bar as though it's done something to wrong her.

Brittany unwraps the chocolate and shrugs. "More for me," she teases, knowing that Santana won't hold out for long.

Santana scowls, but after a second, she shrugs. "Well, I guess we are in a house full of doctors. If we get sick, they can pump our stomachs, right?"

"Totally."

Santana joins Brittany on the couch, settling down beside her. The mattress caves in beneath her so that she and Brittany sink to the middle, hips touching. Suddenly, the room feels warmer. Santana's eyes make a quick pass over Brittany's face; she smiles shyly before reaching for a chocolate bar of her own.

"Ugh! Don't tell me you took the last Almond Joy."

"There's one."

"That's a Mounds."

Thirty minutes later, Santana has her legs in Brittany's lap; they've devoured most all the chocolate and now they're down to what Santana calls the "cheap-ass candy." Neither one of them has said so aloud, but they seem to have decided to eat all their findings in one sitting. Brittany's body seems to notice where Santana touches her more than anything else, tuned to Santana like a radio station; Brittany hums, tasting sweet, sweet, sweet.

Santana burrows her hand into the bottom of the jack-o-lantern, which stands almost empty after their binge. She shuffles around the remaining Smarties and Dum Dums, digging for something palatable. Brittany can't see what she's looking for; she chews on a Starburst, wondering if Starbursts taste as good frozen as they do roasted on skewers over a campfire.

By this point, Brittany's teeth buzz; she's pretty sure it's from the sugar. She feels light and loopy, kind of like she does when she and Santana sneak champagne out of Santana's parents' liquor cabinet.

The ceiling rattles again and laughter rumbles through the rafters. Brittany looks up, listening. How many more patient jokes do Dr. Lopez and his colleagues have left to tell before Santana and Brittany can go upstairs to get ready for bed? Brittany kind of wants to watch a movie or something.

"Hey, Britty!" Santana says suddenly, cutting through her thoughts, catching her off guard.

Brittany looks over to see Santana extending something to her: a ruby red Ring Pop set on a green plastic ring. The candy seems congealed and not quite perfectly gem-shaped anymore. The ring looks lopsided, bent, too. Santana grins like a goon.

"Brittany Susan Pierce, will you marry me?"

Brittany knows right away what Santana means, but it's like her brain knows one thing and her heart knows another.

It should just be a joke.

(Somehow, it feels like a promise.)

She should say something. She should put on a silly accent and say, "Why, Ms. Lopez, bless my heart! I do declare, of course, of course!" talking like one of those ladies from _Gone with the Wind_. She should take the ring and make a big show of slipping it on her finger, then offer it back to Santana for a lick while it's still perched atop her knuckle. She should break down in a fit of giggles and say, "God, San! You goofball," and try to hit Santana with one of the floppy throw-pillows on the couch. She should roll her eyes and ask Santana to find her some more Starbursts, if there are any.

Instead, Brittany does what she shouldn't: she stops.

Brittany pauses, her eyes moving from the ring to Santana's face. She can't help it: she thinks about the question, or at least she thinks back to two weeks ago when she kissed Santana for the first time with the lights on when it wasn't just practicing for boys. She thinks about that thrill that fanned out across her face and down her whole body and how she felt light and warm and like the strong strum in a guitar song. She thinks about how she thinks about Santana all the time now, about how when her heart beats fast like this, it's always, always for Santana, Santana, Santana.

"BrittBritt?" Santana says breathlessly. She searches Brittany for something, but seems scared to find whatever it is. After another long second, she giggles, nervous; she seems to want Brittany to join in.

Brittany does, forcing the smile already on her face into a different kind of smile. She laughs and snatches at the candy.

"Ring Pops are my favorite," she says harmlessly, and that seems to break the tension. She jams the Ring Pop in her mouth without first slipping it onto her finger, glad for something to distract her from the fluttery, giddy feeling in her chest. She knows she's blushing; she hopes Santana won't mention it.

Santana doesn't mention it. "Every candy is your favorite, though," she says quietly instead, snatching at Brittany's hand, pulling the Ring Pop out of her mouth. Something dark and deep passes over Santana's eyes, but then it's gone. Santana puts on her cute mouse voice. "Share?"

Brittany melts.

She offers the Ring Pop to Santana for a taste. She knows it's too soon to ask for it after scaring Santana like that just a minute ago, but Brittany can't help it: she wants to kiss Santana more than anything right now. She bets Santana's lips taste like candy, like the strawberry Ring Pop, impossibly sweet and kind of tangy. She fidgets in her seat.

"Taste?" she asks and Santana holds the Ring Pop up without actually giving it back. She gestures for Brittany to open up and Brittany does; Santana plugs the candy into Brittany's mouth like a pacifier and laughs.

"Ow," Brittany says around the sucker when it knocks against her teeth.

"Baby," Santana teases, patting Brittany's knee.

They trade the Ring Pop back and forth for a few minutes. Every time Santana smiles, Brittany feels something stretch inside her chest. After a while, the candy paints their lips deep red, and their tongues and teeth, too. Santana starts scooting closer to Brittany, shy about it. She removes her legs from Brittany's lap and readjusts so that she and Brittany actually sit closer together than before. She breathes like she does just before the rollercoaster car goes over the first big drop at Cedar Point.

"Hey," she says.

Brittany loves rollercoasters.

Santana says she hates them.

(Santana doesn't really hate them, though; what she hates is people knowing how scared she is to fall.)

"Kisses in Spanish are _besas_, right?" Brittany blurts.

_"Besos_," Santana corrects automatically.

"Not lady kisses, though. In Spanish, girl words end in _-as_."

"I—," Santana says. She chuckles, defeated. "Well, yeah, I guess."

It's probably stupid that they both go for it then, but they do.

Neither one of them really expects the other one to move, so they collide somewhere in the middle, chins and noses first.

"Ow."

Brittany knows enough by now to know that kissing isn't always graceful on the first try, even with someone you—

They both laugh and try again, leaning in slower, tilting their heads. Brittany was right: Santana does taste like strawberry candy. Brittany's mouth no longer buzzes from sugar, but instead from Santana's kiss.

The last time they kissed each other like this, they only really did it once, and quickly, in a fit of giggles on Brittany's bed; this time, they draw it out, savoring each other's breath on their lips. Santana shivers a little where she sits just as Brittany's eyes flutter closed.

It's not like they haven't made out before, but this is definitely the first time they've done so while fully awake and without an excuse bigger than just a Ring Pop and the fact that they like each other to do it. Like, really, really like each other. Like—

After a minute, Brittany pulls away, grinning.

"Hey," she says.

"Hey," says Santana.

"I'm glad you didn't stay upstairs for the party."

"Me, too, Britt." A pause. "I am so done with this candy, though."

"Okay," Brittany says. For a moment, they sit in silence. It takes a while for Brittany to notice that their hands have tangled in their laps. Even though there's room enough on the couch for each girl to have her own space, they both sit super close to each other, breathing like they've finished out their rollercoaster ride.

Without taking her hands back, Santana lays down, falling away from Brittany. She brings her legs up to sit in Brittany's lap again and sighs.

"You'll stay?" she asks.

Brittany thought that was kind of the plan.

"Yeah."

"You'll really stay, Britty?"

Brittany gets the feeling that Santana means more than just a sleepover.

If it wouldn't scare Santana, Brittany would say—

But even though Santana asks, she doesn't really want to know, not yet.

Brittany thinks forward to lots of somedays.

"Yeah, San," she says again, this time quieter. In her lap, she gives Santana's fingers a squeeze.

Santana seems to have crashed from her sugar high. When she speaks next, it's in her close-to-sleep mumble: soft, sweet, and dreamy.

"You promise, BrittBritt?"

Brittany nods, "I do."

(She always keeps her promises.)


	3. Chapter 3: Something Borrowed

Santana is fifteen years old and she doesn't have much hope that she'll actually see Albuquerque while she's here.

Between sleeping through the four am shuttle ride direct from the airport to the practice gymnasium at UNM and Coach Sylvester bellowing the squad into their temporary facilities the second they arrived on campus, Santana has taken in exactly zero Albuquerque sights so far. And considering that the Cheerios have been on the mats running extension level scorpions and Swedish Falls like their eternal salvation depends on it for seven and a half hours straight now? It doesn't seem likely that Santana will get around to sightseeing any time soon.

For all Santana knows, there may well not even be an outside Albuquerque; maybe there isn't anything beyond this stuffy gymnasium filled with sweaty girls, hot-cold compresses, and the eagle-screeching of Coach Sylvester through her bullhorn. It's hard to even imagine the hotel rooms supposedly awaiting them once they finish practice for the night.

Santana resigned herself to the fact that Sue Sylvester is a crazy woman a long time ago, so it doesn't surprise her when Sue only allows them twenty minutes to take their vitamin gel, ice chips, and Gatorade lunch. It also doesn't surprise her when Sue calls an emergency "team shaming" after they falter on the fifth consecutive full run-through of their routine; after all, Cheerleading Nationals are tomorrow.

Some of the freshmen JV girls act stunned, but the varsity girls just take the scolding for what it's worth. Santana extends a pinky finger to Brittany and Brittany accepts it, beleaguered; they limp over to the floor in front of the bleachers and sit down on the mat, waiting for the storm.

Santana counts it as a small favor that while Coach's rants always prove colorful in terms of detail, they pretty much have a standard content otherwise: Sue expresses her disappointment in the Cheerios' failure, finds a creative way to call them all losers, belittles their hardship compared to her own, and then threatens their lives, promising to do illegal things to them if they don't shape up and start performing like champions. After two years on the squad? Santana pretty much has the formula memorized.

As Coach rambles on, Santana disappears behind her eyes. Brittany rocks back and forth, legs pulled up to her chest. Santana sits cross-legged just behind her, kneecaps pressed lightly against Brittany's hipbones, closing the space between them. Santana ghosts curious fingers over Brittany's back, feeling the plastisol print of the Cheerios roster emblazoned on her t-shirt, and, beneath that, Brittany's pulse, warm and steady, like a marching cadence: Kelsey Abbott, Abby Arlington, Whitney Aiko, Danielle Babcock, Sarah Boles, Abbie Bolling, Ashley Creed, Jenny Eckhertz, Katie Eisner, Diedra Fan, Chelsea Fuller, Elsie Grace.

Her fingertips skate further down the list until she finds the only two names that matter. Last year, Jessica Murawski separated them, but her dad took a job in Toledo over the summer, so she isn't around anymore; ditto for April Ostergaard, who transferred to a Catholic school the next town over after her parents found out she wasn't a virgin.

Now it's just them.

Santana Lopez.

Brittany Pierce.

Slowly, Santana pinches her fingers together, dragging the fabric into a pucker; the order changes.

Brittany Lopez.

Santana examines her handiwork, considering it, rolling it over in her mind, then switches the placement of her fingers, reconfiguring the words.

Santana Pierce.

For a second, Santana just reads and rereads, something humming deep inside her.

"Santana! What are you smiling at?"

It's more bark than shout. Santana's eyes dart up to find Coach glaring down the bullhorn at her. Everything in Santana flutters with fear, and she cowers. Coach observes Santana for a second, disgusted, and Santana wishes she could just cease to exist, panicked that Coach might have seen something—though she's not even sure what. All the other Cheerios stare at Santana, wondering what she did wrong.

"Nothing," Santana says, voice small.

Coach sneers. "Well, then stop grinning! The sight of your inappropriately-timed adolescent mirth will give me bone spurs and indigestion." Coach wags the bullhorn warningly in Santana's direction before continuing with her diatribe. "And the rest of you—!"

Brittany's heartbeat speeds a little beneath Santana's hand, as if Coach had snarled both their names, as she so often does. BrittanyandSantana. SantanaandBrittany.

"San?" Brittany whispers.

"Sorry," Santana says, though she isn't quite sure what for.

Santana should be able to shake it off—after all, Coach seems to have forgotten Santana's lapse a few seconds later when she suddenly promotes both Brittany and Santana to flyer position for the x-out basket toss near the end of the routine in a fit of directorial frustration, no hard feelings, calling them two of her stars—but she can't. Her whole body trembles, to the point where she seriously questions if she can successfully execute the stunt. She feels stuck inside herself and incredibly, stupidly woozy.

"San?" Brittany says. She sounds as nervous as Santana feels.

"It's fine," Santana mutters, knowing already what Brittany wants to ask.

It isn't fine, though, not even two hours later when Sue finally decides that the Cheerios should head back to the hotel to rest up for tomorrow. Santana wants to curl up into Brittany on the shuttle ride, but she can't. Something inside her physically refuses to move.

Instead, she sits with her hands in her lap, trying to rub the tremor out from the muscle between her thumb and forefinger. She looks at her shoes and thinks God, God, God. She catches Brittany staring at her with puppy eyes in her peripheral vision. She knows she's scaring Brittany and she hates herself for it, but she can't stop.

This is bigger than she is.

Santana doesn't remember taking the elevator up to the room or tossing her suitcase somewhere near the foot of one of the twin king beds. All she knows is that sometime after exiting the team bus and settling into the hotel, she finds herself facing down one of the seniors with whom she and Brittany share a room.

The girl glares at her. "I said, 'Aren't you coming?' Earth to Lopez! God." This clearly isn't the first time she has had to repeat herself to Santana tonight. "Becca already went down to the pool. Are you two coming with us or not? They have a jacuzzi." She's clad in a swimsuit and flip-flops, one of the oversized hotel towels tucked firmly under her arm.

Santana searches the room and finds Brittany lying on one of the beds, still in her gym clothes. Brittany doesn't say anything; she waits for Santana to make a choice for the both of them. It takes a full six seconds for Santana to find her voice. "No," she says finally. "You go. I'm just... I'm just tired."

"Me, too," Brittany pipes up.

The girl doesn't look particularly convinced, but like most of the Cheerios on the squad, she doesn't question the weirdness that is SantanaandBrittany, or Captain Lopez when it comes right down to it.

"Okay," she says warningly. "But you two had better be ready for the competition tomorrow."

"Don't worry. We'll go to sleep," Brittany says sweetly. "Try hard not to drown."

The girl doesn't catch the acid lacing Brittany's honey farewell. Instead, she just rolls her eyes, not at Brittany, but at BrittanyandSantana, like the two of them are hopeless.

Hopeless together.

Briefly, Santana hates her, but then the girl is gone, out the door, and Santana suddenly feels too spent to hate anyone except for herself. She locks the deadbolt after her teammate and sighs, her body still humming with adrenaline. She feels like she does in that hanging, awful moment before a fight; like there will be impact any second. Her whole self braces for it, but nothing happens. She leans against the door and closes her eyes. Maybe she would feel better if she could just cry.

It only takes two seconds for Brittany to reach her.

Suddenly, there are arms around her shoulders and Brittany's breath warm in her hair, nose pressed against the back of her head. Brittany smells warm and spiced like sweat; neither one of them has changed or showered yet. Santana's sports bra itches against her skin. Brittany peppers kisses behind her ear. "Hey, San," she says. "Hey, Santana. Come on. Hey."

Santana reaches up and clasps onto Brittany's arms. She holds them like a buoy keeping her above water, even as Brittany starts to steer her away from the door and into the bathroom. "All right," Brittany says, pressing a kiss against the back of Santana's neck. "A shower will make you feel better."

The next thing Santana knows, they stand in the bathroom under fluorescent lights. Brittany gestures for them to kick off their shoes and they do. In the next second, Brittany peels away from Santana and begins to gently lift Santana's arms, wriggling them free from Santana's t-shirt with an especial grace and care. "Up, up," Brittany says and Santana obeys, raising her hands above her head. Brittany pulls her shirt off, then reaches for Santana's bra.

Her actions shouldn't comfort Santana, really, not after what happened in the gym, not when the logical part of Santana screams that their bitchy roommates could return to the suite at any moment to find Brittany stripping Santana naked, Brittany stripping herself naked, and them stepping into the shower together, clinging to one another as if for warmth, even though the water nearly scalds their skin.

But they do.

Steam rises around them and Santana feels still for the first time in hours, her eyes shut against Brittany's wet chest. She feels as yielding and fragile as a leaf in a rainstorm; Brittany holds her safe against the rain.

It isn't erotic; this is just the Brittany who grew up down the street from Santana, different from Brittany between blankets and sheets, different from everything that they've been for the last few weeks with each other leading up to Nationals, when they've done nothing but nip and wander their thumbs and spend waking nights together, teenage hormones throbbing like rock drums between them.

Right now, Brittany is only sweet, soaping Santana and rinsing her, guiding her out of the tub when they finish the shower, toweling her body dry. She sits Santana, still wrapped in the white hotel towel, down on the toilet seat and uses her own brush and the hair dryer attached to the vanity to work the water out of Santana's hair. She's patient about it, takes her time, running the same strands over and over.

"Now you won't have to wash it again tomorrow," she says, petting the last stray locks down in back. "No curls."

(Brittany doesn't bother to dry or brush her own hair.)

Santana wants to thank Brittany, but she can't. It's beyond Santana to talk at this point; they brush their teeth and then Santana allows Brittany to pilot her back to the bedroom, to change her into pajamas, to sit her down on the bed and wrap her in the spare blanket Brittany produces from the bottom drawer of the hotel wardrobe.

"Stay here," Brittany says, as if Santana has the strength to do anything different.

Santana watches, feeling far away and trapped inside herself, as Brittany walks over to the window and spreads the curtains open. Honestly, Santana hadn't even noticed that they had a window until this very minute. Apparently, they're high up; vaguely, Santana remembers the concierge directing them to take the elevator to the eleventh floor when they checked in.

"Come here," Brittany beckons and Santana obeys, shuffling over with the blanket still wrapped around her. As she reaches the window, Brittany curls behind her, wrapping Santana into a backwards hug. "Look, San," she whispers reverently.

And suddenly, there's the Albuquerque Santana thought they wouldn't get to see: none of the buildings are very tall, save their hotel—there are no skyscrapers like there are in New York, where Santana has visited twice—and the land seems mostly brown—unlike Cancún, so impossibly green and blue, where the Lopez family vacationed last July—but the city is some kind of beautiful, splayed out beneath an expansive violet sky, which seems bigger than the sky in Lima and somehow older, too. The city lights cancel out most of the stars, except those furthest away, on the horizon, where Santana can just barely make out a broken spine of mountains.

Santana's eyes catch on a nearby neighborhood, with ochre brick buildings accented with whitewashed moldings, some tangled in climbing ivy. Floodlights play over the architecture, shining up from some unseen square in the heart of the intersecting streets.

"That's Old Town," Brittany says, following her gaze. She gives Santana a squeeze.

"Britt?" Santana mumbles, finding her voice for the first time since their teammate left them alone in the room.

"Isn't it beautiful, San? I read the Albuquerque article in the atlas before we came. I knew Coach wouldn't let us see it ourselves, but I thought that maybe I could imagine it if I at least knew what was down there."

Santana wants to say something, but can't. Her throat won't obey and she's too tired. Instead of speaking, she draws a palm to her lips and kisses into it, then reaches over her shoulder to press the kiss onto Brittany's cheek. Brittany nuzzles her face into Santana's hand—into the kiss—like a cat will do into a good ear-scratch.

Santana feels much calmer now.

They both watch as an airplane crosses the sky, starting in one corner of their window, just a blinking light above the dessert, before disappearing at the other, leaving only a ghostly contrail behind. After another minute, Brittany tugs gently on Santana's body. "Let's go to bed, Santana," she says quietly.

Brittany pulls away long enough to draw the blinds and turn up the A/C in the room before leading Santana over to one of the mattresses and turning down the covers so she can crawl in. Santana moves mechanically, still detached from her body; she knows she has to snap out of this or she'll wreck everything at Nationals tomorrow. Sleep will help, she's sure.

"Shh," Brittany says, crawling carefully onto the bed beside her. They face each other, eyes level in a way that they never are when they stand in flats or barefooted. "Go to sleep, sweet heart," Brittany whispers, breaking the endearment into two words.

Nobody ever calls Santana that.

Brittany means every syllable.

Santana's eyes tear and she quickly closes them. She shouldn't want to pull Brittany into her again after what happened today; she shouldn't daydream, she shouldn't be so fucking weak, she shouldn't make herself stick out in the crowd, not ever, no never, not again, please.

She should try to break up the syllables between BrittanyandSantana, SantanaandBrittany; if she were smart or normal, that's what she'd do. She wouldn't let there be this weirdness, this blankets-and-sheets Brittany and best friend forever-Brittany, this whatever-this-is between them. She shouldn't, she shouldn't, she shouldn't.

She wants to be mad at herself for almost getting caught.

She wants to be mad at herself for needing this, for needing Brittany, so badly that there's an ache in her chest even with this little bit of distance between them on the bed.

They're just best friends, she tells herself.

They'll win Nationals tomorrow and then she'll go back home to Lima and fuck Puck and half the basketball team. She won't have to feel so ashamed anymore. Her parents will be proud of her because she won. No one will remember that one reckless moment from the gym.

Santana wants a lot of things, but she knows she won't ever get them.

With her eyes still shut, she reaches across the bed. Her hand finds Brittany's hand and she tangles their fingers together. She can hear her own breathing, ragged. The tears leak out from behind her eyes and make salt tracks down her cheeks. She knows that Brittany notices it, but Brittany doesn't tell her to stop crying.

Instead, Brittany says, "Sweet heart. That's _querida_ in Spanish, isn't it, San?"

_"Querida,"_ Santana repeats, leaning forward until there isn't a gap between them anymore. Softly, she kisses Brittany's lips. _"Querida,"_ she whispers, finally calm enough to fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4: Something Blue

Santana is sixteen years old when she stands still.

She hovers in front of her chair, her hands pressed together in a final stopped clap. She can't seem to look away from the stage. Everything in her sighs and waits.

Brittany danced like a shooting star, like pure inertia and no gravity, all grace and lows and highs and something brilliant, like electric light. Santana shouldn't be so happy to see her, of course, not when things still sit so weird between them, not when Brittany isn't hers.

But she is.

Looking up at the stage—empty now that the dancers have scurried off into the wings, their recital finished—Santana's throat feels tight, but she ignores it. She keeps her eyes trained to the back curtain, holding her breath, making wishes.

After a while, Mr. and Mrs. Pierce tap Santana on the shoulder and Brittany's little sister tugs insistently at her fingers, wrapping her small fist around Santana's pinky-ring-and-middle, towing Santana towards the rapidly-filling aisle. Santana resists the pull for just a second longer, pausing in the middle of everyone as she looks back up at the stage, still seeing flashes of sequined Brittany behind her eyes.

It feels like the first time she ever watched Brittany dance all over again, and in a way it is. It's the first time Santana's attended one of Brittany's recitals since... well, everything.

"Santana!" Brittany's sister whines, drawing out the last syllable of her name. "Come on! We have to go see Britty!"

Santana allows the little girl to drag her out of the auditorium by her hand, reminding herself over and over again that she can do this "friend" thing, even though that's mostly bullshit and she knows it.

One dance doesn't change much, not even now when they're starting to be friends again, not even when Santana came with Brittany's family to see her perform, just like she would have done before.

It doesn't mean that Mr. and Mrs. Pierce are Santana's in-laws, even though it sure feels like they are as they walk alongside Santana and Brittany's sister to the end of the hallway, pushing in the opposite direction of most of the traffic, arm in arm and recapping the high points of the performance. It doesn't mean that Santana will be around to see Brittany's sister grow up into something other than just a living, breathing perpetual motion machine with blonde hair and freckles. It doesn't mean that Santana will never miss another one of Brittany's dance recitals again.

It sure as hell doesn't mean that Santana and Brittany are going to be okay.

Santana squeezes her fingers around the little hand curled in hers in a way that's almost like how Santana longs to hold hands with—

Brittany appears the second they open the doors to the back room, flying at Santana like there's nothing strange between them. Her hot body falls onto Santana's cool one as she wraps her up in an embrace. Santana doesn't even mind that Brittany's sweaty and messy; all Santana can think is that the other dancers in Brittany's class have their cell phones out as they text their boyfriends, but Brittany is here with her.

Hers.

Except no.

Brittany belongs to him right now; Santana has to remember that. Brittany has a boyfriend and she'll text him later. She'll send him X's and O's goodnight while Santana will go to bed alone.

Right now, though? It just feels so damn good to wear Brittany's arms around her shoulders and feel her heat and breath so close. "You were amazing," Santana chokes, because that's an okay thing to say.

Brittany pulls away and grins. Her little sister throws herself around Brittany's waist, but recoils almost instantly. "You smell," she says, crinkling her nose.

"Thanks," Brittany laughs, reaching to muss her sister's hair. Her sister squeals and hops aside, offended.

If Brittany smells, Santana doesn't notice it. Instead, what she notices is that Brittany has already changed out of her stage costume and into baggy dancer's sweats. She looks ready to make a hip-hop music video.

Actually, she looks kind of perfect.

Santana struggles to keep her thoughts in check. She hangs back, watching as Brittany's parents come over to tap her on the back and tell her that she did a good job. She watches as Brittany leans on her mom's shoulder with one arm, making Mrs. Pierce support her weight just because she can, just because she's taller. Santana watches Brittany pop her gum as her dad explains that the family needs to go home ASAP so that they can get Brittany's sister into bed because she has a spelling test tomorrow morning.

Santana watches until her own name enters the conversation and suddenly she realizes that she's supposedly in on this planning party, too.

"Santana, honey? We could drop you off on our way back, if you need to get home soon," Brittany's mother says. "It is a school night."

A pause.

Santana doesn't want to go home—not to her house, anyway.

She knows what she wants, but she can't just shrug and say it like she normally would. Not right now, not when Brittany's stooped over her gym bag, checking her phone, pants sagging down in back so that the top of her underwear shows, back turned to her family and Santana, not with the green message light in the corner above her screen illuminated, reminding Santana that Artie's called Brittany, that Artie wants Brittany, too.

Santana opens her mouth to say something, but doesn't get the chance.

"Mom!" Brittany blurts. "Santana's coming with me." She's using her "duh" voice, like it's the simplest thing in the world.

Maybe it is.

"Okay," Brittany's dad says. "You might want to roll down a window so that Santana can breathe, though." He gestures as if to clear the air around his daughter.

Brittany's sister and mother laugh at the joke, but Brittany pulls a face, scrunching her nose. "Whatever," she says, retrieving a bottle of body spray from her bag and spritzing it once in her father's direction before liberally applying it to herself. Sweet pea, everywhere; Santana can almost taste it.

The Pierces leave with promises to talk to Brittany at home and a chorus of see-you-laters to Santana. Santana watches as Brittany hugs the girls in her class goodbye. Brittany's instructor kisses Brittany on both cheeks.

"Santana!" the woman says. "Long time, no see. You sure picked the wrong performance to miss last month! Brittany was exquisite. It was her _moment d'une carrière!"_

Santana doesn't speak French, but she gets what the instructor means; she saw the video, after all.

One of Brittany's dance friends uploaded it to Youtube: "Brittany P.—Lyrical—'Landslide' Instrumental—Original Choreography."

When Santana thinks about it, she feels guilty, but also strangely proud; Brittany never dances for him like that. Brittany never dances like that for anyone but her.

If nothing else, she'll have this.

"It wasn't a big deal," Brittany mumbles. Santana can't read her tone.

(I'm sorry, Santana wants to say.)

The instructor doesn't catch any of it, because no one ever does. She gives Santana a pat on the wrist. "See you next month," she says. Santana hopes she will.

After a few more goodbyes and congratulations, Brittany starts wiggling, sick of hanging out when they could be go-go-go. She tugs on Santana's jacket sleeve, as insistent as her little sister, and whispers conspiratorially, "Come on, San. _Vámanos!_ It's so hot in this room, I can't breathe."

It's dark outside, clouds hanging low over the parking lot, grumbling. Earlier in the day, it rained, so the ground squeaks under their tennis shoes as they scurry across the asphalt. It's that time of year in Lima where the sky is always gray, even at night, and the earth constantly feels soggy underfoot.

Brittany opens Santana's door for her, bowing like a chauffeur, and Santana just thinks God and slides into the car.

"All set?" Brittany asks before shutting her in.

Santana has to work at swallowing her smile as Brittany jogs around the nose of the Camry and slips into the driver's seat, illuminated under the lights in the parking lot, her cheeks shining with this ruddy brilliance, her body radiating warmth that Santana can feel from where she sits. Brittany smiles, still breathing heavily, the baby down wisps of hair on the back of her neck wet as though she just showered.

Someone should make it illegal for such a sweaty girl to look so damn beautiful.

"God, I'm hot," Brittany says, fanning at her face and reaching for the switch to open the air vents.

Before Santana can help herself, she blurts out, "Yeah, you are!" just like she would have when they could both pretend it didn't mean anything.

Santana feels herself flush, though Brittany probably doesn't see it. Santana's mouth hangs open, still caught mid-smile, and she can't seem to close it, even though her mind screams for her to say something—anything—to downplay, downplay, downplay.

Should she apologize? Should she try to pretend that she meant "hot" as in temperature, the same way that Brittany did? Should she just claim it? Say, "You know what? Screw it. You belong with me, not him. And you're not just hot. You're beautiful, Brittany"? Get out of the car and run away like the coward that she is? The car cabin seems a hell of a lot smaller than it did a minute ago.

"Wanna go get some pop?" Brittany asks, still wearing her smile. She acts like Santana didn't do anything wrong.

Santana takes what Brittany gives her. "Sure," she says. There's a waver in her voice that wasn't there a year ago; it seems to slip in all too often nowadays, especially around Brittany. Santana wonders if Brittany knows how strange all of this is for her.

If Brittany does know, she doesn't show it.

"Do you mind if I put on the A/C?" Brittany asks, even though it's still April in Ohio and not quite warm enough for that.

Santana can't deny Brittany anything; she nods, cold as soon as the air hits her. She pulls her jacket tight around her and keeps her discomfort to herself as Brittany flips the radio on. As soon as the music starts, Brittany dances again, bobbing to Katy Perry and Kanye West, mouthing the words to the song and drumming on the steering wheel. Santana watches a succession of streetlights followed by fleeting dark pass over Brittany's face, pale then black then pale again, illuminating the rounds of her cheeks, shading the hollows of her eyes.

After a few minutes, Santana realizes where it is that Brittany's going. "Oh, god," she groans. "Britt—?"

But it's too late. Brittany starts singing, just as the restaurant appears in view.

_"Hamburger, pickles on top! Makes your heart go flippity-flop!"_

Santana should not find Brittany singing that song so cute; Santana fucking hates Kewpee Burger, not only because of the lameass jingle, but also because it's so damn Lima, and even awesome fries can't make up for that kind of unapologetic hickness.

"Really, Britty?" Santana says, the nickname slipping in as Santana forgets to check herself.

She has to stop doing that.

Brittany turns lazily into the parking lot, ignoring Santana's protests. She's smirking now—that smug cat look that she gets when she's seconds away from victory.

"What?" Brittany shrugs, trying to seem nonchalant. "I wanted frozen lemonade and Kewpee is the best."

"You wanted to sing that damn jingle."

Another shrug. "Well, I like singing. Do you want a lemonade or not?"

Santana stifles a sigh. She cannot win tonight, not with Brittany, not ever. She tries to sound annoyed, but she kind of doubts it works: "Only if we get it at the drive-through. You know how bad their creepy-ass baby mascot freaks me out."

Santana would have paid for her own lemonade, really, but Brittany won't let her; instead, Brittany hands the pimply boy handling their transaction at the window her own debit card, ignoring the five dollar bill Santana extends to her as though it's invisible, turning her back to Santana so as to prevent her from sneaking the money through the window to their server.

Since Brittany can't see her anyway, Santana allows herself to smile. She feels heat rising to her cheeks. So what if Brittany's paying? That doesn't make this a date. Santana tries to remember that, but finds it hard to make the idea stick in her mind, and especially after Brittany starts giggling, pulling faces at Santana and mouthing out her name in the reflection of the rearview mirror. The server says their order will be ready in a minute.

When the kid comes back with their frozen lemonades, he hands them out to Brittany one at a time. She takes the first one and licks from it, a cheeky grin on her face, before handing it over to Santana. She takes the second one and licks that, too. If Santana doesn't give Brittany a look, she's going to break down and kiss her in the next minute, so Santana furrows her brow and accepts the drink, scowling.

"What?" Brittany says. "It's not like we've never shared germs, San."

Santana's heart speeds and she stalls, unsure of what to say outside of maybe _Marry me?_ or _Please, marry me_ or _Goddamn it, Brittany, you have got to stop doing this_ or all of the above.

Watching Brittany eat frozen lemonade has nothing to do with kissing, but somehow Santana's mind links the two activities together. She thinks back to when they were fourteen to a time when there was a real, honest-to-god blizzard in Lima and Brittany insisted that they build a snow fort under the buckeye tree in her yard.

Santana remembers bundling up from head to toe, her in a purple coat, Brittany in blue, both of them wearing matching mittens that they bought together at the Claire's in the Simon Mall. She remembers that their fort looked more like a lumpy turtle shell than a real bunker—that they could barely fit inside it, the both of them, so they had to huddle together, their legs wrapped up like a braid.

Santana hated the cold, hated the ache in the tip of her nose and the cartilage in her ears, but found a reason to stay in the fort when Eskimo kisses turned into real kisses and she discovered for the first time how much she enjoyed kissing warmth back into Brittany's freezing lips, at first thick and resistant to her touch, then gradually softening from the heat of her breath.

Now they sit in the parking lot of the Kewpee Burger, each girl with a cup of iced lemonade sitting in her lap, the engine killed for the time being, and Santana feels her own lips shivering and wonders what Brittany would do if she just leaned over and went for it.

She shouldn't wonder things like that anymore, though.

Santana picks at the frozen lemonade with her spoon, chipping into it and shoveling slush around in the cup, trying to melt it down enough so she can sip it. She keeps her eyes in her lap while Brittany hums along to whatever's on the radio. Except for her humming, they've lapsed into silence, and not really the comfortable kind. Santana's throat feels tight again; her iced drink has very little to do with it. She can almost feel the words she's choked back heavy somewhere just below her voice box. She blinks and blinks and blinks, annoyed with the parking lot lights.

After too long, Brittany sighs. "San?" she says in a way that sounds like something important will follow.

Santana just stares at her, waits.

Brittany checks Santana's face, her eyes finding Santana's eyes, then settling on Santana's lips. Brittany licks her lips and Santana twitches. It all seems to happen so slowly. Finally, Brittany sighs. "I should get you home," she says. Santana can tell that there was something else, but she doesn't push it. She can't anymore.

"Yeah," Santana says, thrusting her spoon into the lemonade a little too hard.

Brittany sets what's left of her frozen lemonade in the cup holder and starts up the engine again.

_"Hamburger, pickles on top... Makes your heart go flippity-flop..."_

Brittany circles the Camry around the lot, the lights overhead catching the shiny, sweat-slicked patches on her skin, before pulling out onto the main street.

Brittany seems to hate the silence just as much as Santana does, so pretty soon she starts asking Santana questions about their precalculus homework, and for the first time since the lockers, Santana feels glad that they're in the same section. They talk more fervently about math than they've ever talked about math before, then start in on the teacher and how much of a freak she is. It feels good just to talk about something with Brittany, even if that something is school and it's all superficial. Maybe Santana can do this "friend" thing, she thinks, just as Brittany pilots the car seamlessly onto her street.

Santana's house looks dark from the road. Fleetingly, Santana wonders if her parents are already in bed or still at work. It isn't that late, but late enough that she knows she won't get to talk to them before she goes to sleep. Not that she'd have much to say anyway; she can't really explain tonight, not even to herself.

Brittany parks the car in the driveway. "Santana?" she says again as Santana reaches for the door latch. "Thanks for coming."

Santana responds automatically. "No problem. You were great, Britt."

The words sound so small. Santana really means something else.

Brittany must pick up on it, because she hesitates. "San, I...," she starts, then stops, not with her usual halting speech, but with doubt and something else behind her faltering. Her breath catches, and, when it does, Santana's does, too. Before Santana realizes what's happening, Brittany leans across the console. She ducks her head, and, for a second, Santana feels sure that Brittany will kiss her.

Instead, Brittany reaches out and smoothes a lock of Santana's hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "I've missed you," Brittany says, and Santana knows, she knows, she knows. Her skin burns where Brittany touched her.

Santana thinks of Brittany in the video, more somber and perfect than Santana had ever seen her. She thinks of Brittany dancing like tear drops curling down a cheek or light playing on glossy photographs in an album that still has blank pages left at the end. She thinks of Brittany with liquid lines, making promises, not to the audience in the video, but to Santana, watching the performance in the darkness of her bedroom, hand frozen over her computer mouse, heartbeat quick in her chest.

Brittany only dances like that for her.

"Me, too," Santana whispers.

It's all that she can answer.

Brittany doesn't drive away immediately when Santana gets out of the car. Instead, she waits for Santana to walk up the driveway and follow the path leading to the front door. She turns the brights of the Camry on as Santana stands on the front stoop, rifling through her purse for her keys, giving her light to search by. She waits until Santana manages the lock and enters the house. She doesn't drive away until Santana makes it all the way to her bedroom on the second floor, turning on the lights in her room. Santana steps to the window just in time to see Brittany turn her brights down and peel out into the street. She watches Brittany's car disappear into the cloudy darkness.

Santana presses a hand to where Brittany touched her cheek.

Everything in her sighs and waits.


	5. Chapter 5: Something You

Brittany will be eighteen years old in two months, but Santana still comes to her window like they're just naughty kids in middle school.

"Hey," Santana says as Brittany pulls the window open, the yellow light from her bedroom spilling out into the indigo night.

Santana could come in the front door if she wanted—Brittany's parents never mind it when Santana stays over, even on school nights; they say that Santana's their "good daughter" and joke about how she's more help around the house than Brittany is, which is kind of true, mostly because Brittany lets it be—but Santana seems to like the window, for some reason.

(Brittany thinks it's for the kisses.)

Brittany can almost feel Santana smiling before she sees it. Sure enough, there's the grin, revealed when Santana emerges from beneath the shady boughs of the buckeye tree, scooting cautiously along the branch to the window. Santana sets her elbows on the sill and waits the way she wouldn't in the old days, allowing Brittany to lean in first, which Brittany does.

"Hey, you," Brittany says. Their foreheads touch together, Santana still outside and Brittany in. Santana feels summer-warm and radiant, even with the evening air around her so cool. It's like she keeps the afternoon heat in her skin, like she's August all over. She grins at Brittany and Brittany grins back; they're such dopes sometimes. After a minute, Brittany asks, "San, why don't you come in through the door? Why the window every night?"

Santana shrugs. She doesn't pull away, like she would have done last year. She mulls. When she answers, she's shy, and Brittany thinks it's adorable: "I dunno. I kinda think it's romantic. Don't you?"

"Totally."

And this is the part where they kiss.

Santana's kisses used to be nothing but secrets.

They used to feel a little desperate, like having a lot of important words to say but not much time to say them in. They were always, always sweet, sometimes hot, and sometimes they tasted like something Brittany couldn't quite name; for a while, she thought it was the menthol in Santana's cigarettes, then the vanilla in her lip balm, but it wasn't that, not either of those things. It took a long time before Brittany figured out what it was.

Santana tasted lonely.

The flavor was strongest on nights when Santana came to Brittany after she'd already been with Puck or one of the other guys—or worse, when Brittany came to Santana after she had already been with Artie. Brittany tried her best to kiss it away, but somehow it always came back.

Sometimes Santana kissed angry, not at Brittany, but at something just over Brittany's shoulder that Santana could see but Brittany couldn't; Brittany checked for it once when they kissed in front of a mirror, but all she saw was their reflection: two girls with their mouths and noses pressed together, falling into each other, perfect fit.

Now their kisses are not-so-secret secrets and Santana doesn't kiss angry anymore.

Santana tells Brittany everything, and Brittany listens, smiling as they press their lips together.

Tonight, Santana's kiss tastes like vanilla lip balm and something just a little bit silly; Brittany can already tell they're going to laugh a lot before they go to bed. There's no fear, only thrill in this one. It makes Brittany feel lightheaded, like when she drinks really fizzy soda through a straw.

Santana must feel dizzy, too, because when she pulls away, she looks kind of punch drunk. She smiles and says, "Mhm. Kisses like that could make a girl fall out her tree, Britt."

"Don't fall, San. I'm pretty sure you don't come with a warranty."

Santana laughs, charmed. "Are you gonna invite me in?"

Brittany smirks. "I dunno. I think you might have to convince me."

Tentative, Santana inches a little bit further down the branch, which bows beneath her weight, more supple at the end than it is at the middle. She readjusts her elbows on the windowsill, her forehead still pressed against Brittany's, and leans in for another kiss, this one nowhere near fizzy, but fireworks instead. If Brittany were the one in the tree, this kiss would definitely make her fall out of it.

Santana pulls away, smug.

(Adorable.)

"What do you say, Miss Pierce? Does that warrant an invitation?"

Brittany just grabs Santana, one hand under her arm, the other at the back of her neck, and yanks Santana over the threshold, up into the room. "Woh!" Santana says as Brittany drags her hips across the window molding, struggling to get her knees out from under her as Brittany hustles her into the house. They land on the carpet, tangled and laughing, but still upright, already too close and kissing again, sloppily, nothing graceful but everything fun about it. Brittany keeps her hands on the back of Santana's neck, Santana's warmth seeping into her fingers, rising.

After a few messy kisses, Brittany laughs into Santana's mouth and pulls away. "Hi, Santana," she says sweetly.

Santana grins, looking dizzier than ever. She must forget herself for a second, because she says, "When we have a house, all our windows have to really open. None of this 'screens in them' shit, huh, Britt?" and it's like she doesn't even realize it—like she doesn't know that she's just told Brittany more than she ever has before.

Suddenly, Brittany's the one who feels warm all over. She feels like she's been dancing all day, running grand jetés across the length of the studio until everything in her soars and swoops and she can feel the motion in her pulse. A year ago—or even a few months ago—Santana never would have said something so open and hopeful, and especially not sealed with a kiss, not without catching herself.

Brittany wants to ask Santana a thousand questions, but she knows she can't make a big deal about this now. She just nods and smiles. "Yeah, always open, San. Just like for Peter Pan."

It feels like a promise.

And Santana must be okay with that, because she laughs and nods in kind, giving Brittany a little squeeze around the waist. After that, they start getting ready for bed, changing into their summer pajamas—gym shorts and baby tees, not much else—and discussing the new cell phone Santana wants to buy before school starts and how Brittany's lyrical jazz instructor just asked Brittany to help choreograph one of the numbers for the senior showcase scheduled for October.

Brittany's prediction comes true: they do laugh a lot tonight, and especially when Santana accidentally puts her t-shirt on backwards first because she's too busy pulling goofy faces at Brittany to pay attention to what she's doing. It's just sort of perfect them, and pretty soon they're lying on the bed, rubbing circles in each other's palms, the television set on low, mumbling from the dresser, all the lamps dim except for the one on Brittany's nightstand. Dull, yellow-gray light permeates the room.

Santana smoothes a lock of hair away from Brittany's face. "You look so good with your bangs grown out, Britt," she says, considering Brittany's face with reverent admiration. "Like, really grown up."

Right then, Brittany makes a goal to get in five more kisses before they fall asleep.

One.

Just a flush, lower lip to upper, more a nudge than anything.

Something catches Brittany's eye. "And you have a leaf in your hair," Brittany says, teasing the offending buckeye star away from Santana's scalp by its stem. "These things look like pot," she says, flicking it away.

"Britt, don't throw that on the floor."

"Too late." A pause. "Maybe we could try to sell some to Puck someday. He wouldn't know the difference."

They both laugh before Santana's face changes, scrunching. "Ugh," she groans, even though her tone is still light. "Do we really have to go to cheer camp already next week? Remind me why we're doing this again, please."

Brittany shrugs. "It'll be fun." Santana gives her a look. Brittany caves, "Well, okay, it won't be _fun_ exactly—but we're kinda gourmets for punishment, you know?"

Santana sits up enough to give Brittany a peck on the lips. "God, be cuter, Britt, okay?"

Two.

"Okay."

Silence sits between them, different than the weird, heavy silence from last year, when Brittany was with Artie, different than the too-much-too-little silence from the year before that, when Santana kept so many secrets that she was almost sick with them. Better, different. Santana's eyes close and for a second Brittany worries that they won't make it anywhere near five before Santana falls asleep, but then Santana speaks again, her voice only barely louder than a whisper. "I'm not ready for school. I'm not ready for it to not be summer anymore."

Brittany knows Santana's talking about something bigger than new notebooks and the return of homework and the shift to colder weather. She gives Santana another kiss, this one deeper than the last few.

Three.

"You don't have to do it right away, San," Brittany reminds her. "It's okay." Santana starts to say something, but Brittany cuts her off. "When you're ready, we'll do it together."

Santana sighs, deep, from the bottom of her lungs. She scrunches her eyes closed tighter for a moment. She swallows, then looks up at Brittany. "Britt?"

_"Te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras, secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma."_

The Spanish seems to jolt Santana. Her eyelashes flutter like butterfly wings. "What?" she says, heat rising from her skin, even more than when Brittany first opened the window to her tonight. Brittany's body soaks in Santana's warmth the same way Lord Tubbington's blankets do when he curls up in them fresh off a sunbeam nap.

Brittany shrugs. "It reminds me of you."

"Where did you—?"

"I read it in somebody's Facebook quotes."

Santana looks a little flustered, almost windswept, even though they're inside. She sits up on her elbows to get a better look at Brittany, her lips parted, heat radiating from her skin in waves. "And you memorized it?"

Brittany smiles. "How did I do? Did I say it right?"

"You said it perfect."

Brittany nods. "Good. I like Spanish because it doesn't have silent letters. Everything just says its name." Santana still seems a little star-struck. Brittany knows she had better explain. "There was an English translation under it," she admits, laughing.

They kiss a lot after that, but Brittany only counts it as one, because all the kisses mean the same thing: _te adoro_, which is what Santana whispers along with Brittany's name when she pauses for breath.

It's only barely a pause, though.

Four.

Finally Brittany says, "We've got to stop. I told Tina I'd go running with her tomorrow. I need to sleep."

Santana doesn't stop, though. She presses more kisses into the corners of Brittany's mouth, nibbling at her bottom lip. "I'll kiss you to sleep," she mumbles against Brittany's skin.

"San," Brittany says. "You can't."

"Why?"

"Because... my heart beats so fast when you kiss me, I won't be able to sleep a wink."

Santana slides down and rests her head on Brittany's chest just below her collarbone. She listens carefully for a few seconds before her hands begin to trace down Brittany's sides, stopping at the hem of her shirt, which Santana tugs up to expose Brittany's navel.

Santana sits up and grins wickedly. "Well, what if I do this?" she says, mischief in her voice as she begins to draw a slow circle around Brittany's bellybutton with one finger. "Does your heart beat too fast when I do this, too?"

It does, but Brittany doesn't say so. Instead, she pretends not to even feel it. She's good at this game, better than Santana. "Nope," she says, smiling. "Not at all. Let's go to sleep, San."

Santana thumbs at Brittany's hipbones. She makes an "Are you kidding me?" face. Brittany keeps totally still, even though Santana's touch tickles a lot. She waits for Brittany to say something, but Brittany doesn't.

After a minute, Santana laughs. "God! And people say I'm the bully, Brittany Susan Pierce! You—are—such—a—tease!" she punctuates every word with a kiss to Brittany's stomach through her shirt. Brittany closes her eyes and concentrates on keeping her breathing even.

Oh god.

It still doesn't count as five yet.

"Are you really serious?... Brittany, are you really serious? Are you asleep?"

Santana leans over Brittany's face, her hair brushing over Brittany's cheeks, tickling her. She presses in really close to Brittany, so close that Brittany can smell the real scent of Santana's skin under her perfume, bright and warm and somehow earthy.

When she speaks next, she whispers. "It's okay, Britt. I'll still be here when you wake up."

"I'm not asleep yet," Brittany says finally, opening her eyes. She finds Santana staring back at her; the closeness makes Brittany giggle. "But I wanna sleep, so how about we see what happens in the morning?"

Santana seems to catch her meaning.

Something flares behind her eyes. "Okay."

"Okay," Brittany returns, ushering Santana off of her and onto the mattress. They both stand and scamper into the bathroom, Brittany after Santana, flipping on the fluorescent lights around the vanity. As they brush their teeth, Brittany knocks their hips together, shaking her ass and giggling. Santana looks over at her, grinning at Brittany around a mouth full of foam; Brittany has never felt so adored in her life.

"Goofball," Santana says, only the word sounds all squished around her toothbrush.

Brittany laughs and spits into the sink. She could really, really get used to this.

Back in the room, Brittany untucks her blanket from the corners of the bed. As she does so, Santana opens the covers, peeling them back before wriggling herself in. She holds the blanket open for Brittany, propped on her side, waiting. Brittany feels something then—something about how they've done this all before, but they'll do it all again, they'll keep doing it forever.

It's her turn to smile wickedly now. Santana catches her eye just before Brittany takes a running leap onto the bed, landing next to Santana, the mattress bouncing in protest of her weight. She burrows under the blanket, her long legs wrapping around Santana's. Santana reaches over and clicks off the lamp, settling the room into darkness.

"Goofball," she says.

"Goodnight, San."

"Sweet dreams, Britt."

Santana wraps an arm around Brittany's waist from behind. At the last second, Brittany rolls over, turning into her, the contours of their bodies fitting into each other. They both sigh and adjust to the mattress.

"If Coach Sylvester is too terrible, we can always quit again," Brittany says after a minute. She's so close to Santana that her breath reverberates off Santana's face.

"Mhm," Santana mewls, sleepy.

Brittany laughs. "I thought you wanted to stay up, San."

"Mhm," Santana mewls again.

Brittany kisses Santana's cheek, because she's too damn cute.

"Scholarships, though," Santana says finally.

"I have academic decathlon for that," Brittany shrugs, stroking the Santana's forearms with her thumbs.

"I know you do, smarty-pants," Santana says. Brittany flushes, low, sweet warmth spreading over her cheeks. She loves it when Santana calls her that.

Santana goes silent then, and Brittany knows what she's thinking about, even though Santana doesn't say anything aloud. They discussed the possibility that Santana might have to pay for her own college over orange popsicles on the back stoop a few weeks ago. Santana just kept saying, "It's their money and once they know...," and Brittany felt so much concern and pride and love for Santana that she thought she might start sobbing from it, but she didn't; neither one of them did. They just discussed it all like adults, not feeling like naughty middle school kids for once.

Santana doesn't bring up what they said now because they already have their plans in place, but Brittany knows she still worries about everything because that's just Santana. Brittany can feel Santana's heartbeat fluttering in her chest. Brittany shrugs a little and says, "Well, if we have to quit Cheerios, I'll just take the academic decathlon scholarship for me, then I'll pay your way myself."

"What?"

"I have a college fund. And I could get a job."

"Brittany—"

"Maybe I could work as a cat whisperer or something. I'm really good at that," Brittany smiles into Santana's cheek.

A pause.

"You're awesome at that, Britt."

Santana shuffles against Brittany, pulling her into a tight embrace. Her hair brushes over Brittany's shoulders. Even though Brittany can't see Santana through the dark, she can tell that she's smiling. "You're my favorite everything, Brittany," Santana says quietly.

"I love you, San."

"I love you, too."

Brittany forgets to count the fifth kiss and the sixth and the seventh and eighth.

Even though their hearts beat fast, they kiss each other to sleep.


End file.
